


Pacific Coast Highway 101

by neensz



Category: Red Robin (Comics), Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neensz/pseuds/neensz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's drowning people in the Columbia River, and the Winchesters tackle the case while trying to figure out how to keep going once they've saved the world.  </p><p>Tim Drake probably couldn't take an actual vacation if someone had a gun to his head.</p><p>***</p><p>On hiatus :/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flashback

**Author's Note:**

> I'm apparently working on this now. Everyone's kinda turned into a caricature of themselves, but hey. This is currently my stress relief, so I'm rolling with it and not stressing :D  
> \---  
>  **Disclaimer:** Credit to entanglednow's [Weekly World News](http://archiveofourown.org/series/6018) series for its brilliantly evocative Mermaid!Sam, and to rageprufrock's [rape dogs](http://archiveofourown.org/series/211) (because that is a trope I’ve decided needs to be pan-fandom, even though I barely reference it); those stories inspired this story that has nothing to do with either of them (hence the not putting the 'inspired by' thingy on it).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The road so far: SPN goes AU during 701: Meet the New Boss. Cas sends **all** the souls back to purgatory, even the leviathans, and things calm down back to ‘normal’ for the Winchesters. Post-Red Robin comics, no New 52._

**September 2010**

First Mate Rory Johansson stared disbelievingly through the fog and spray of the grey dawn. Had he just? No, it couldn’t be. A wave crested and broke, and the fog parted just enough for Rory to see clearly—there was a man overboard.

Rory reached for the claxon to sound the alarm, but the man somehow twisted and turned and rose out of the water until his entire torso was clear of the waves. Then, he turned to face Rory.

The man’s eyes, the same painful grey-green of the Pacific on a sunny day, the color of the sea when land was just out of sight, skewered him in place when they caught his own. Sand-colored hair was slicked flat to his skull by the water, and an incongruous tuxedo jacket over a white dress shirt buttoned all the way to his throat and a goddamned bow tie that looked perfect even after being in the Columbia river, and moved with the current surrounding him. Rory started rationalizing the man’s presence in the water—maybe he’d fallen off one of the cruise ships, maybe he was a really freaking good swimmer—when the man opened his mouth so wide it almost looked like he’d unhinged his jaw, and _shrieked_.

The man was on the other side of double paned, reinforced Plexiglas, and at least six fathoms away from the boat to boot, but the sound was as loud, no, _louder_ than if he was screaming right into Rory’s ear. Rory slapped his hands over his ears, but that didn’t do anything to stop the sound. It felt like it was crawling inside his bones and boiling the marrow, and the longer it went the more Rory wanted to shoot himself in the ear just to make it _stop_. Rory collapsed down on the console in front of him, his elbow hitting the toggle for the claxon with on the way down.

After what felt like an eternity, the screaming stopped, and the silence rang in his ears louder than the shriek had done. Rory looked up from where he’d been knocking his head on the console to distract himself from the pain, eyes darting out to where the man had been floating in the water—but nothing was there.

Rory looked around frantically, trying to spot the man in the water, and belatedly realized he was surrounded by his captain and crew, all of them watching him with concern and alarm. Rory pulled his hands from his ears, watching them mouth things at him in confusion before he realized he couldn’t hear anything—nothing at all, except for the rushing of his own blood in his veins. His captain grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking it a little. Rory scratched at the itch at the corner of his jaw—his fingers came back bright with blood.

The damned scream must have busted his eardrums.

  


**October 2010**

Rory nursed his coffee at the table outside the coffee shop on Commercial Street, taking advantage of the clear day to soak up a little vitamin D, and watched the busker on the steps to the old concert hall. He was drawing a decent-sized crowd. The guy was good. Extremely good. He also looked vaguely familiar—Rory was almost positive he must have gone to high school with him. His grey-green eyes kept meeting Rory’s over the heads of his audience, and the expression in them, along with the half-smiling quirk of his mouth, made Rory smile back helplessly.

The guy finished his song, and let his fiddle drop down to his side with a grin for the crowd as he swept a hand through sandy hair to get it out of his eyes, where it’d fallen during a particularly vigorous sawing of his bow. Not that Rory had been watching all that closely. The guy said something to the crowd, who groaned good-naturedly but started dispersing after a prolonged jingle that must have been a veritable waterfall of change into the guy’s hat.

Rory looked away as the guy packed up his things, not wanting to be caught staring, and so was taken by surprise when the guy plopped into the seat across from him a few minutes later, leaning his violin case carefully against the exterior wall of the building. “Hi,” he grinned across the table at Rory, obviously not someone afflicted with a great deal of shyness. “I’m Nick. You looked familiar—and if I don’t know you, I’d really like to change that.” Rory couldn’t help but snort at the line, and had to mop up the coffee he’d snorted through his nose all over the table with a handful of napkins from the dispenser, and the ice was broken.

And the rest, as they say, was history.


	2. Now

**May 11, 2012**

The universe was clearly out to get Dean. More than that, it was just fucking with him now. Because, fucking seriously, a possessed teddy bear? First of all, how the hell did a demon manage to possess a stuffed toy? Second, what the fuck did it think possessing a teddy bear would accomplish? And lastly, there was no way pretending to be wandering teddy bear doctors would ever get less fucking creepy.

Dean was in the shower, trying to wash the sleaze off. It wasn’t working. At least they’d exorcised the damn bear, and the case was closed. It was the latest in a long string of fucked up and just plain _weird_ cases. He’d suspected Sam of picking these cases just to mess with him, as some sort of opening salvo for the Great Prank War of 2012, but Dean had done some research himself, and it was like now that there wasn’t an impending apocalypse or some angel going meta on all of existence, that the weird and fucked up seemed the new way to go for the supernatural baddie community.

Sam banged on the door. Dean grunted a reply, and Sam’s voice, barely muffled by the cheap hollow-core motel door, followed. “I think we’ve got something on the west coast—there’ve been reports bar pilots in the Columbia River seeing mermaids.” Judging from Sam’s tone, he found all this just as out there as Dean did, and that was saying something, considering he was the meatsuit the Devil had wanted to wear to the Prom-ocalypse.

Dean rinsed the fifth iteration of ‘rinse and repeat’ from his hair while he scoured his brain. “Columbia River—fuck, that’s up north, isn’t it? Of course we wouldn’t get mermaids in California, that’d be too awesome.”

Sam made a pained sound, and Dean grinned. Man, it was good to have his brother back, for real this time. Even if the universe was making up for it by throwing possessed teddy bears at them.

-

“A vacation,” Tim repeated blankly.

“You needn’t sound so horrified,” Bruce replied dryly, without looking back over his shoulder at Tim. “The crime rate is at an all-time low in Gotham, as well as Bludhaven, Metropolis, Star City, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. You’re bored, Tim, don’t deny it. If you keep looking for trouble as hard as you have been—and yes, I know you think I’m being a hypocrite right now—” Tim winced internally, even though there was no doubt Bruce knew anyway, “you’ll burn out and get sloppy.”

Tim rolled his eyes. He should have guessed that the root of all this was quality over quantity, Bruce wanting to keep Tim in top form. Ostensibly, Tim had come to Gotham to visit Alfred—the man had pretty much raised him after Bruce had taken him in, after all—though he’d been patrolling with Bruce as often as he could since he’d gotten here. More often, Tim was certain, than Bruce would have preferred.

“As such, I’ve taken the initiative and booked you on a cruise.”

Tim stopped moving, frozen in horror on the edge of a decrepit rooftop. “A _cruise_?” he asked, in the same tone of voice he’d once used to remark on one of Bart’s costume ideas: ‘ _pink polka dots?_ ’

“A cruise.” If Tim didn’t know better, he’d accuse Bruce of smugness. Or vindictiveness. Actually, that sounded exactly like Bruce. Tim began to realize this was probably payback for that time he’d sicced that pack of supermodels on Brucie at the last ostentatious party he’d been dragged to as Tim Wayne. Bruce loathed supermodels about as much as Brucie loved them; a self-made vicious cycle both Tim and Alfred found endlessly amusing.

“When does this _cruise_ ,” Tim imbued the word with as much disdain as he could manage (which was quite a bit, if he did say so himself), “depart? And where does it go?”

“Oh, it was just the first one I could find—you know how I am with the internet.” Yeah, that was Brucie right there. Tim ground his teeth and felt doomed, because of course Bruce would know if Tim didn’t go—how he was with the internet, indeed. Sometimes Tim thought Bruce invented new programming languages just because he was bored with the old ones. “Princess Cruise line, I believe. It departs from Los Angeles at 4pm—tomorrow.” Now Bruce looked back over his shoulder at Tim, a shark-like grin creasing his infuriatingly handsome face beneath the Bat’s mask. “You’d better hurry if you want to be on time with suitable clothing in your bags—you’re registered as Tim Wayne. Mustn’t let down the family name, after all.”

Tim turned around and left without a word, making his way back across the rooftops to where he’d stashed the Duc. He was going to have to book it to get to Tim Wayne’s Gotham apartment and pack in time to make the cross-country flight in Brucie’s private jet feasible. Unfortunately, Tim Wayne’s location needed provenance, otherwise he’d just take the Batplane and damn the consequences. Already this stupid vacation was more trouble than it was worth.

 

**May 12, 2012**

Dean downshifted the Impala, yet again, and cursed the crappy backwoods winding highways that were the only way to get to the town at the mouth of the Columbia River, where the majority of the sightings had been. There’d been at least two fucking ninety degree curves in the last ten minutes alone, which meant not only was the drive taking at least twice as long as he’d estimated from their last pit stop, but it wasn’t even enjoyable. Neither he nor Sammy were prone to carsickness, thank god, after growing up on the road, but this stretch of backwoods highway was testing even their iron stomachs.

“I already hate this fucking town,” Sam muttered under his breath, “and we’re not even there yet.” Dean grunted an agreement, no longer wasting words on the topic they’d been stuck rehashing for the past hour.

It was another thirty minutes until they finally reached the outskirts of the town. They hadn’t been driving through the town for more than a few minutes before Dean started feeling like he was missing something. He put up with it for a while, but just when he was about to say something Sammy spoke up. “Is it just me, or-“

“God, no, thank Christ,” Dean interrupted him. “It looks really familiar, right?”

Sam nodded and broke out Dad’s journal from the glovebox. “Have we had a hunt here before, you think? Maybe when we were little?” he asked, paging through the early parts of Dad’s scribblings. “What’s it called, again? Astoria, right?”

Dean mm-hmmed his agreement and let Sammy flip through the pages of Dad’s journal in silence, while Dean quartered the town and kept an eye out for a likely-looking motel as he got his bearings. He always tried to find the unique-looking places, because there was no quicker way to lose track of where you’d been when every place you stayed at was bland and beige and identical. Also, the weird places were generally cheaper. He passed on a motel comprised of a bunch of little bungalows that looked disturbingly familiar, due to its proximity to the local high school and the distinct lack of bars within walking distance.

Sam was still paging through Dad’s journal when Dean finally picked a place to stay downtown. He checked them in and had brought the stuff in from the car (Sam had wandered in with his bag around then, still flicking through the journal) and was cleaning his guns when Sam finally put down Dad’s journal with a huff.

“Well, it’s kinda a good news, bad news thing.” Dean raised a questioning eyebrow, feeling a little twitchy, and put down the Sig he was cleaning. “Well, Dad had a hunt here about twelve years ago, something to do with a theater haunting and a pretty simple salt and burn. Bad news was he left us with Bobby that time—we’ve got no reason to recognize this place.” Dean met Sammy’s eyes, and the uneasiness in them matched his own. “Question is, is this a really bad thing, or just a weird thing?” Sam finished.

“Knowing our luck, it’s a really bad thing that’s gonna bite us in the ass and bleed us dry before it sics the rape dogs on us,” Dean muttered under his breath.

-

Tim tipped the porter and secured the door behind him once his bags had been put on the queen-sized mound of pillows that he assumed covered a mattress. He just hoped it was a firm one.

He had to give Bruce credit where credit was due, though—at least he’d shelled out for a decent room instead of sticking Tim in the economy cabins in order to encourage him to spend as much time outside his room as possible.

He automatically surveyed the exits (of which the balcony on the ocean-side of the room was one), possible hiding places, which of the various amenities could function as weapons, and which of them likely contained bugs from either Bruce, the paparazzi, enemies, or all three combined, and collapsed backwards onto the bed with a grunt. Maybe Bruce was right, and he did need a vacation—but this certainly wasn’t going to be one, not if he had to play Tim Wayne: Socialite for the duration.

-

Sammy seemed to forget sometimes (most of the time) that Dean had mad research skills of his own. Normally Dean was just fine with that, since he didn’t get off on it like Sam did and it had saved him a lot of desk work lately. But it was a little insulting, how astonished Sammy looked when Dean solved the familiarity mystery of the little town before his bookish brother did.

“Movies?” Sammy repeated after Dean, again, with an incredulous look at the laptop Dean had swung around to face him.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy,” he paused so Sam could get the obligatory nickname-bitchface out of his system, “movies. Moving pictures. Talkies. The tiny people in the box at the end of the bed that _aren’t_ having sex.” Sam flipped him off, which Dean was kinda expecting. “This place is like, the Prague of ‘90s small-town America—like Vancouver, except a Prague of America that’s actually in America and not Canada.” That just got him a blank look from Sam. “You know how movies always use Prague as pretty much any and every city in Europe?” Sam’s blank look didn’t change, and Dean gave up. “Never mind. Just, Hollywood’s filmed a lot of movies here. Like, dude, _Goonies_ , that weird pirate movie you were obsessed with as a kid,” he pointed at the indecently long list on IMDb filling the screen. Sammy bitchfaced at him and Dean gave up, smacking the laptop lid shut with a scowl. “It’s just a weird thing, Sammy, not a supernaturally weird one, just a normal weird one.”

Sam’s brain seemed to finally click back on and he opened his mouth to say something, but Dean didn’t stay long enough to hear it, tossing Sammy the keys and snapping out “Bar,” as he slammed the door behind him in response to the unasked ‘Where are you going?’

He shouldn’t be hurt by it (god, his _feelings_ were hurt, how much of a girl was he these days?), considering it was a stereotype he’d encouraged Sam in so he’d take the bulk of the research over the years. But logic didn’t seem to have much to do with it. The obvious solution was to take his irritation out on the nearest bottle of Jack instead of on his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I abandoned this back in 2012, when I abandoned the rest of my work. Putting it up on AO3 will hopefully be incentive to work on it.


	3. Chapter 3

**May 12, 2012**

“Sam. Sam. Sammy!” Dean shook Sam’s shoulder to wake him up—now that the kid had a soul again, he slept like the dead.

Sam flailed an arm out at him—moving slowly enough that Dean had plenty of time to move out of the way—and sat up in bed, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. “What the hell, Dean?” he groused, “It’s,” he paused to peer at the glowing red numbers on the bedside table in the night-dark room, and Dean interrupted him.

“It’s ten thirty, Sammy,” he said dryly, and stepped away to flick on the overhead light. Sam scowled at him.

“You haven’t been gone long,” Sam stopped scowling at him to yawn, and settled back against the headboard.

“I found out what we’re up against,” Dean grinned when he dropped the bomb on his research-obsessed brother. People-skills beat musty old books, hands down.

Sam gaped at him, eyes flicking over Dean in a habitual check for injuries that Dean noticed and waved off. “No, don’t worry, I didn’t have a run-in with whatever it is. I got to talking with a couple of river pilots at the bar, and one of them mentioned how the old-timers talk about seeing a screaming dude in the water and how they refuse to take the boats anywhere near that place for the next few days. They obviously thought the fogies were full of shit, but dude. It sounds like a death omen, don’t you think?” Sam was only half awake, but he was already fumbling for his laptop on the bedside table.

“Maybe,” Sam yawned his way through the word, “I’ll check the local obits and see if anything turns up. You,” he paused to yawn again before continuing, “you want to ask around some more in the morning, see if there are any reports of boats sinking when they ignore the warning?”

“Can do.” Dean hesitated to add the next part, as it wasn’t really relevant to the case, but figured that the more information they had about this weird place, the better. “It was strange, though. The whole time these two guys were telling me all this, all the older dudes in the bar were giving the three of us the evil eye. I think this might be one of those things that everyone knows and no one really talks about, you know? It was like they were glaring because an outsider was taking them serious, not because they were the village idiots. Just… I think this might be a case where we need to tread lightly with the locals. I dunno, it was weird.”

Sam hmmed, obviously only half-listening as he cracked open his laptop and brought up Google in the browser. “Yeah, we’ll be careful. Probably just a bunch of drunks, though,” he muttered, and Dean nodded.

“Yeah, probably.”

 

**May 13, 2012**

The first stop on the cruise from hell was Santa Barbara, and Tim really didn’t feel an overwhelming urge to explore. Instead, he holed up in his room and texted the Titans to let them know he’d be in San Francisco tomorrow. He knew Bruce would be monitoring his texts, but he figured hanging out with friends in a port city counted as vacation—and if a supervillain happened to accost the city while he was there, well, it would be irresponsible of him to not help, right?

Though, of course, that wasn’t what he said to Kon. [Tim Wayne will be in SF tomorrow, bored out of his skull—want to hang out?]

[twayne a douche y i wanna hang w him XP ] was Kon’s immediate response.

[Because Brucie sent him on a cruise and he’s dying of boredom.] Tim sent back.

[omg a cruise how horible how will u survive zomg :P c u tomrw thn]

Tim rolled his eyes and powered down his phone. At least he’d be able to catch up on his sleep this week, he thought, and changed for bed even though he’d only got up a few hours ago. Sleep, or socialize with the assholes on the upper deck: It wasn’t exactly a difficult decision. He had a debt from sleep that been in arrears since he’d been 14.

-

The locals, the Coast Guard, _nobody_ wanted to talk to Dean about the screaming dude in the river. He’d gone the World Weekly News reporter route, the ‘author researching local legends’ route, and even busted out some Federal ID a couple of times. Nobody would talk to any of him.

Dean walked straight to his bed as soon as he entered the room and fell face-first onto it. “This town is fucked,” Dean complained into his pillow.

“I didn’t understand that, but I’m guessing it means you didn’t find anything,” Sam commented, like the condescending douchebag he was.

Dean rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “No one’ll admit to shit. Almost like they’re protecting someone. Why would you protect a monster who’s killing people?” he complained.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe they’re scared, who knows. Anyway, I found some freaky deaths; a couple of obits mentioning animal attacks in the water. When I hacked into the coroner’s reports, cause of death was reported—for all of them—as death by crocodile.”

“Crocs? _Here_?” Dean asked, sitting up in disbelief. “We’re in Oregon,” he said flatly. “The only crocs here are in the zoo.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed from his hunch over the laptop. “No crocodile or alligator could survive in this environment, but that’s what they’re calling it. The hunt Dad did here before was for a kelpie—a magical underwater horse that eats people–”

“I know what a kelpie is, Sammy,” Dean interrupted wearily, rolling off the bed to hover over Sam’s shoulder. “I’ve been doing this longer than you have, remember?”

“Whatever,” Sam huffed, and things quickly devolved from a retaliatory noogie into an all-out, no-holds-barred wrestling match.

 

**May 14, 2012**

“What do you _mean_ , things are quiet here?” Tim complained.

“I mean it looks like the superbads have finally got it through their masked heads that the Titans are too much for them.” Kon shrugged. “Or they’re all on vacation at the same time. Maybe there’s a supervillain conference or something. But do you know what that means?” he asked, suddenly floating with excitement. (Literally.)

“What does it mean?” Tim asked flatly.

“It means you can invite your best superbro on your failtastic cruise and we can tear that shit up!” Kon said excitedly.

“Yay,” Tim exclaimed in a monotone, mostly to rile Kon up. Honestly, he’d be glad of the company. Kon could be his buffer for the cruise cougars who’d started circling Tim when he’d ventured out of his cabin yesterday to put in an appearance at the formal dinner. Kon loved cougars. (Kon loved pretty much anyone who hit on him, actually.)

“Aw, Timmy, don’t be like that, boo,” Kon simpered, yanking Tim into a far too clingy bro-hug. Tim struggled, but Kon wrapped him up in his TK so he could pet Tim’s hair mockingly, “you my boy.”

Kon released him when Tim reached for the lead-lined pocket on his utility belt he kept the kryptonite in. (Tim only ever visited Titan Tower in costume. There was no sense in making it _easy_ for people trying, against all proof, to connect the Wayne family with the Bat family. Plus, having kryptonite close at hand always made Kon easier to handle.)

“Man, you know we gonna have fun, don’t front,” Kon whined, backing away with his hands up in surrender.

Tim sighed. “Do you want to come on a boring old-people cruise and protect me from the cougars?” he asked flatly.

“Hell yeah!” Kon yelled, shooting up into the air and pumping his fist.

“As Conner Kent, Tim Wayne’s charity-case friend, not as Superboy,” Tim reminded him warningly.

“Can do, mi amigo,” Kon said brightly, and not at all reassuringly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much using this as productive procrastination on Square Peg, so updates will be sporadic.


	4. Chapter 4

**May 14, 2012**

Dean was supposed to sit tight in the room while Sam went off to question the local Fish and Wildlife people about the rogue crocodiles (or alligators, or crockigators, or whatever the hell type of imaginary mutant reptiles these people thought were living in their river), since Dean had already burned half his aliases earlier.

But fuck that.

Dean wasn’t going to sit around in the room like some snot-nosed kid. He was a grown-ass man. He could do what he wanted.

And he wanted some fucking fancy-ass coffee.

-

“This is a _wine-tasting_ cruise?” Kon asked, looking at one of the flyers on a tastefully arranged corkboard in the hallway just outside Tim’s room. Tim couldn’t tell if Kon was excited or heartbroken.

“And you’re a registered passenger who’s just turned 21,” Tim muttered, palming Kon the fake ID he’d quickly made up in the Titan Tower lab when he’d realized Kon’s legal and apparent ages could be a problem (respectively: Technically, it’d only been eight years since Kon’s ‘tank day’, as Kon called the day he’d broken out of the Cadmus genetic research facility, even though he’d looked 16 at the time; and while Kon had finally started aging normally after his traumatic vacation to the 30th century back in 2009, objectively, Kon looked like he was barely 19).

Tim didn’t even feel guilty about breaking the law—he’d always considered Kon to be older than him, even with the way he was still occasionally flabbergasted by things Cadmus hadn’t seen to download, because when Tim had been 14 and first met Kon, Kon had looked 16. But even if he were only sixteen, the guy had died and almost died trying to save people too many times to count. Just because Kon still looked like a teenager shouldn’t stop him from living the life of the legal adult Tim and the rest of the superhero world considered him to be.

At least, that was Tim’s take on it, and he was the only one whose opinion mattered right now, _Brucie_.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, omigawd, you’re the best Tim that ever Timmed!” Kon shrieked in an excited whisper, looking at the ID, bouncing up and down on his toes so vigorously he started to float. Tim, used to this, grabbed his arm before he was a couple inches off the ground and casually pulled him back down with a thump.

Luckily they’d only just finished dumping Kon’s bag in Tim’s stateroom, and the hallway was empty. Regardless, Tim made a mental note to hack in and review the security footage later—alter it if he had to, though it had probably just looked like Kon was jumping, though, since he hadn’t gotten very high before Tim had caught him.

“Does alcohol even affect you?” Tim asked, curious. He’d never seen anything about it in Kon’s file, or participated in any relevant experiments.

“A little, maybe, I don’t know. That doesn’t matter, though—now I can buy drinks for the ladies!” Kon exclaimed, pumping his fist. “And the mens,” he added after a brief moment of thought, winking lecherously at Tim and draping himself all over him.

“Ugh,” Tim groaned, shoving Kon off. “You’re lucky you’re immune to STIs, or you’d be so disease-ridden by now you couldn’t even walk.”

“Disease-ridden, no. Ridden? You bet, baby!” Kon exclaimed, and took off running down the hall. Tim chased after him.

Couldn’t let his cougar-buffer get too far away, after all.

-

Dean was stranded.

It was raining, and Sam had taken Baby when he went off to be all official at the Douchepartment of Fish and Wildlife. Luckily for Dean (not so luckily for Sam, who wanted Dean to just behave, but _screw you Sammy_ ), the town was small enough (and Oregonian enough, all artsy and hipster...y) that their motel was within a mile’s walk of at least five different coffee places.

Good enough. Dean wouldn’t melt. (Probably.)

Dean escaped the motel, and wandered the seven(ish) blocks of downtown until he found— _hell yes_ —Street 14 Coffee, aka, a coffee place with a liquor license.

Maybe this little hipster town wasn’t so bad after all.

The barista started watching him as soon as Dean stepped through the door. A slightly creepy level of customer service, but he’d take it.

“What do you have with espresso and whiskey?” Dean asked, once he was close enough to the counter that he wouldn’t be awkwardly yelling across the shop.

“You want that hot or cold, love?” the barista, who was apparently British or something, asked.

Dean stopped himself from making a face. The guy might be built like a brick shithouse, but that didn’t change Dean not wanting to be called ‘love’ by _anyone_ —except maybe by diner waitresses old enough to be his grandma. They always got a pass on pretty much anything, because they had the best pie.

(Mmm, pie.)

But, the guy was gonna make Dean an alcoholic espresso, after all. Maybe he should get a pass too.

“It’s fucking raining out, yeah I want it hot,” Dean replied, with a charming (if he did say so himself) grin, ignoring the endearment for the moment.  “Hey, you got any pie?” he asked when the guy ducked down to make some clattering noises under the counter. Looking for the drinks list, Dean guessed.

“Do we have pie, he asks,” the barista huffed, standing up and not handing Dean the menu he’d come back up holding.

Dean raised his eyebrows.

“No, we don’t have pie,” the barista rolled his eyes, grinning again.

He was a very smiley guy. Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Mhmmm. Whiskey,” the barista muttered, staring down at the menu. “D’you want honey or chocolate?” He looked over the menu at Dean; even his eyes were smiley.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the barista (whose name was apparently Nick, if the nametag was right). No one should be that happy.

“Right, I’ll decide,” Nick the barista said brightly (and fucking ominously).

“Right,” Dean agreed slowly, keeping suspicious eyes on him as he started doing complicated things with the complicated (and very shiny) giant espresso machine behind the counter, until he returned with Dean’s drink in a plain paper coffee cup. “How much?” Dean pulled out his wallet.

“For you, Honeyffee, free,” the barista winked at him—but then his eyes went cold and stormy (did they just fucking change color?), even though the rest of him was still excessively chipper and smiley, “as long as you hunters get the fuck out of my bloody town,” he said.

The barista’s tone was soft, but there was nothing gentle about it.

Dean’s eyes widened and he backed up a step. “The fuck?” he whispered, staring at Nick the barista. _He_ was the kelpie? But he was as dry as a human—kelpies were supposed to always be wet and to leave puddles everywhere and–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's where it ends. No, it didn't accidentally get cut off. Yes, I am a horrible person.
> 
> _**Disclaimer:** Street 14 Coffee is a real place in Astoria, Oregon. To the best of my knowledge, they do not have a liquor license, nor do any of the coffee shops in Astoria, Oregon. (Someone really should, though. All this alcoholic coffee drink research has been vv inspiring.) Only the shop/building itself was used in this story; none of the characters are real people or based on real people. Alcoholic espresso drinks research conducted primarily from here and here and my sister's kitchen. (I may post more of my research notes on [Tumblr](http://n1rd.tumblr.com/post/129336698767/whats-a-honeyffee) if requested.)_


	5. Chapter 5

**May 14, 2012**

“Don’t you want your coffee, love?” Nick the barista kelpie asked sweetly, holding out the to-go cup of Dean’s spiked coffee, even though his eyes were still threatening Dean.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Dean wasn’t entirely sure what was going on here. He stepped woodenly back up to the counter to take the cup from the kelpie’s hand.

Because Dean had hunting in his blood (and took risks he sometimes shouldn’t), he took the opportunity to grab the kelpie’s wrist, instead of the coffee cup, and tugged him in close. Dean was buzzing with adrenaline and fear. But if you let fear slow you down in this life, you weren’t gonna be a hunter very long. (Because you’d be dead, get it?)

“If you weren’t killing people, you fucking monster, you wouldn’t have to worry about hunters,” Dean growled into the kelpie’s ear, just as quietly as the kelpie had earlier.

The kelpie did something too fast for Dean to follow, and suddenly the coffee was in _Dean’s_ hand and the kelpie was gripping _Dean’s_ wrist, tugging _him_ in close. “I’m not killing anyone,” the kelpie said softly, dangerously, and shoved Dean away. He managed to do it in a way that made it look like Dean had stumbled, but smoothly enough that Dean’s alcoholic espresso didn’t even slop through the lid of his paper cup.

The kelpie eyed him, the smiley barista guy he’d been a minute ago now nowhere to be seen. “I’ll come find you later,” the kelpie said quietly, after a moment.

Was that a threat?

“We may have a common goal,” the kelpie added. Then, suddenly, the smiley barista was back again. “Ta for the patronage, hope you’ll come again soon!” he said brightly, loudly enough that Dean realized he was playing to their interested audience, because, _oh hey_ , there were people all around them, sitting at the cafe tables in the coffee shop and watching the activity up at the counter.

Right.

Dean lifted his cup to the kelpie, taking the first sip as he walked out the door.

Oh, _fuck him_ , it was _good_.

Dammit.

-

“Why are you _researching_ , Timmy?” Kon whined.

Tim reached blindly for one of the thousands of decorative pillows his bed—currently a mobile workstation—was littered with, and chucked it at the entertainment center without looking away from his laptop. “Because everything’s been too quiet lately, and I don’t trust it,” he muttered to his screen, confident that Kon’s superhearing would pick it up.

“It’s a trap!” Kon’s Admiral Ackbar could use some work, but at least he’d made the obvious reference.

“Exactly,” Tim let himself smile slightly. “Oh _ho_ ,” he murmured to the data on his screen, then winced.

“What is it, Santa? Are the reindeer picking on Rudolph again?” Kon asked absently.

Kon hadn’t gone for the ‘ho’ comment Tim had expected. Was something wrong?

Tim rolled sideways on the bed so he could peer up at Kon without straining his neck. Kon was sprawled on the top of the TV cabinet (Tim hoped Kon was supporting himself with his TK, considering the way those things were rarely as sturdy as you’d think), the pillow Tim had thrown at him a moment ago now tucked under his head as Kon stared blankly at the ceiling.

Tim narrowed his eyes at Kon.

“Are you using X-ray vision to creep on the upstairs couple having sex?” Tim asked, wincing.

“They’re not even having sex, they’re just making snuggling sounds and watching a movie or something in French. _Boring_. Also, I still don’t have supervision yet, thanks for reminding me,” Kon groaned, then rolled off the TV cabinet to hover aimlessly in the middle of the room.

“Timmy, it’s a _cruise_. They’re for fun. Here’s a wild idea—let’s have fun!” Kon flung his arms up crazily. “Normal fun, not research fun, Tim. There’s a pool! There’s parasailing! There’s an _open bar_ ,” he said reverently. “Come _on_ , Tim!”

“I’m having fun,” Tim said blandly, knowing it would rile Kon up. It was also true. “Did you know there’s been evidence found of crocodile and/or alligator kills in our next port?” Kon looked at him blankly. “Neither crocodiles or alligators can survive in the Columbia River Estuary. Too cold for crocs, too salty for ‘gators,” Tim explained, intrigued.

“Oh no. It must be a clue to some nefarious supervillain plot,” Kon said flatly. “However would the world survive without you.”

Tim suppressed a smile. “You have your fun, I have mine. Go play with your cougars, maybe hunt down a chickenhawk or two,” he told Kon.

Kon sighed, then brightened, thumping down to the floor and heading for the door. “You know what they say about big cats—if you can’t handle the claws,” Kon’s voice trailed off as he left the stateroom.

“–don’t climb over the barriers at the zoo?” Tim muttered sardonically, and went back to his research.

 _Oh_. If he traced back far enough, he could see that there was a pattern to the kills. They first began back in 2010… But he couldn’t see what the pattern _was_. He broke out his spreadsheet software.

Oh, this was gonna be _fun_.

-

“You found the kelpie making spiked coffee at a shop downtown,” Sam shook his head. “Dean, come on. Don’t be an idiot. You know they can’t be that far from water.”

Dean scowled, about to argue, but paused to cock his head toward the door when he heard the familiar quiet scrape of lockpicks at work. The motel room’s locked door opened, even though Dean and Sam were both already in the room.

They lunged for their guns.

“Well, you’re half right,” Nick the smiley-barista-kelpie said, sauntering into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. He didn’t seem to care that two guns and a knife were tracking him as he wandered around the Winchester-less half of the room, touching all the appliances and chairs, and John’s journal, before washing up against a wall.

Dean and Sam shared a ‘Can you believe this guy?’ look. Dean was glad it wasn’t just him who thought this was really fucking weird.

“It’s true that kelpies can’t be very far from water, but you apparently don’t realize that most of this town—all the flat parts of it anyway—was built on piers back in the 1800s. And that one found me making spiked drinks, but I’m not a kelpie.” Nick the not-a-kelpie raised his hands, showing them he wasn’t armed—not that monsters usually needed guns or knives—before crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, smiling faintly.

“I am looking for one, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspend your disbelief, please, on the whole ‘barista/bartender putting an alcoholic beverage in a to-go coffee cup and no one saying anything’ thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**May 14, 2012**

Nick the not-a-kelpie seemed surprised that Dean and Sam hadn't lowered their weapons. Dean sighed, shot Sam a 'do not even _think_ about doing what I'm doing' glance, and tucked his gun away. He slid Ruby's knife into its sheath, but didn't secure it. Just in case.

"Let me guess, you don’t want us to kill the kelpie when we find it," Dean said flatly, really, _really_ over this argument. Usually Sam was the one on the other side of it, but not always.

"Well, only because I want to teach it a lesson myself. I’d rather it be dead than not, though. So if you get to it first, I won’t come after you, if that’s what you’re worried about," Nick shrugged. Well, that was a nice change, except for the being a monster himself–

"Gabe?" Dean asked. Just in case.

"Who?" the not-a-kelpie asked, confused. "My name’s Nick. Nicholas Eames," he corrected Dean, bowing grandiosely. Dean glared. Who'd he think that fancy bow with all the arm waving and finger waggling was going to impress, exactly?

"So you’re not the archangel Gabriel come back from the dead. Again," Sam confirmed suspiciously.

"Uh, no. I’m a nøkk," Nick said, eyeing them like he was at risk of second-hand idiocy.

"Neck?" Dean asked, glaring over at Sam when his little brother set his gun down on the table—within easy reach, at least—and opened up the laptop.

" _Nøkk_ ," Nick corrected, aggrieved. Dean didn't hear the difference, but whatever floated his boat.

"Nick the nøkk?" Dean prodded.

"Who’s there?" Nick replied flatly, rolling his eyes. So, that was something he got a lot, then, from people in the know. Must be kinda like those parents who alliterated all their kids' names. It was a point in favor of nøkks being real things, but it didn't prove that this guy actually was one.

Nick watched Dean like Dean was some sort of dull bug whose constant circling and walking headfirst into walls was vaguely amusing; Dean glared back. He still wasn't convinced that this wasn't Gabe, back from the dead (again) and playing another trick on them.

Sam interrupted their silent staring contest, saying, "Well, Wikipedia says nøkks are the same things as kelpies, here." Dean put his hand on the hilt of Ruby's knife. He didn't know if it would do anything special to a kelpie, but trying out a good-old-fashioned stabbing never hurt (well, almost always hurt whatever was being stabbed, actually).

"Right, yes, because a crowd-sourced encyclopaedia isn’t written—or read—by arseholes who clearly have no idea what they’re talking about." Nick rolled his eyes.

"So you’re a shapeshifter," Sam confirmed.

"No, I’m a _nøkk_. How is this so hard for you people to understand?" Nick flung his hands up in the air and stared at Sam in disbelief. Dean reflexively gripped the hilt of Ruby's knife at the monster's sudden movement, sliding it halfway out of its sheath.

"Well, nøkks shift their shape," Sam argued.

"Ugh. We don’t shed our skin to do it, ta. Gross," Nick said, grimacing.

Dean reluctantly slid Ruby's knife the rest of the way back into its sheath and released his grip on the hilt. "Prove it then," he goaded the supposed not-a-shapeshifter. "Shift without taking off your skin, and maybe we'll believe you're one of these nøkk things." _And maybe not, since Gabe had never needed to shed his skin to shift his shape._ Dean didn't know if he was hoping or dreading that the monster would turn out to be Gabe. The archangel was kind of a dick, but he'd been on their side in the end. (Besides, Dean hated it when people on his side died, despite how depressingly used to it he was becoming.)

Nick sighed gustily. "Yes, fine," he agreed reluctantly. "I'll need to use your bath."

Dean and Sam exchanged an eloquent look. (It said: _What the fuck is this guy trying to pull?_ )

"Yeah, sure," Dean agreed slowly. "We're gonna watch, though." Fuck knows what the monster might try to get up to alone (with their stuff) otherwise. It'd been the monster's idea to break into their motel room, but Dean didn't want to give him the opportunity to escape (or shift into a Winchester-killing shape) by leaving him alone.

Nick waggled his eyebrows at them lecherously. "Like to watch, do you?" he asked knowingly.

Dean and Sam recoiled, making disgusted faces. "Ew!" Sam exclaimed. "Not like that."

"Ugh, no," Dean grimaced. "So we can make sure you're not clogging up the toilet with your skin."

Nick pulled an equally disgusted face. "Thanks ever so for that mental image. Well, come along, then," he said, walking past them and into the bathroom. He left the door open, and Dean could see him start running the water in the bathtub. He'd actually meant the _bath_ , apparently, not just the privacy of the bathroom.

"Weird?" Dean asked Sam quietly. Sam watched with raised eyebrows as the monster opened both of the tub's taps full blast and tested the water. "So weird," Sam whispered back. They hovered outside the open bathroom door, staring at the monster, who stared back once he noticed them.

"Well, this is awkward," Nick said brightly, taking a seat on the toilet and crossing his legs as they all waited awkwardly for the tub to fill. Dean and Sam stayed quiet, watching him warily, their hands hovering over their weapons like the fucked-up safety blankets they were.

"Right then," Nick said finally, once the tub was almost full, and started stripping. Sam blushed bright red and turned around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash. Dean watched the monster strip with narrowed eyes. This could be a ploy to get them to look away for some reason. Nick winked at Dean, and Dean scowled. "Get on with it," he ordered gruffly.

"And they say romance is dead," Nick laughed, and stepped into the tub. Dean scowled harder, ignoring the warmth of his cheeks. "You can turn around now, love," Nick told Sam condescendingly, and Sam did, though his frown at being so obviously patronized was almost severe enough to rival Dean's expression.

Dean and Sam stared impatiently at Nick, who rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Prepare yourselves to be impressed, loves," he warned them, and then he–

He–

Dean burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. "You're a _mermaid!_ " he howled, and it was Nick's turn to scowl.

"I. Am. A. _Nøkk_ ," the mermaid bit out angrily.

"You've got a tail just like Ariel!" Dean snickered. Even Sam was starting to grin a little. "Where's your seashell bra, Ariel?"

Nick glared at Dean, and then suddenly there was a very naked, very female (and _impressively_ endowed), red-headed mermaid in the motel's bathtub, staring at Dean and Sam with wide, amazed eyes. Dean choked on his laughter, sputtering to a stop. Sam's eyes shot up to examine the ceiling. "Okay, okay! Merman, nøkk, not a mermaid, got it," Dean said quickly.

Embarrassingly, he couldn't drag his eyes away, even though he was _really_ uncomfortable being so attracted to a Disney cartoon come to life—not even because Dean knew that she was actually a dude with biceps almost the size of Dean's head. She just looked so... innocent. It was disturbing. Especially combined with her... assets.

And Ariel was suddenly Nick again. "Thank you," Nick said gravely, though his eyes were dancing. Dean still had a few doubts, but he was beginning to believe that this Nick-nøkk guy was for real, not just another prank of Gabe's (as much as he just really wished someone would confirm it was actually Gabe).

And then the motel bathroom was abruptly even more crowded.

"Cassie, baby," Nick cooed.

"Nick," Castiel replied solemnly, and Dean just gave up. "He is one of the nøkk, and not my brother in shifted form," Castiel told Dean gravely. "My garrison used to coordinate with his people often during the war with Lucifer. My father created them to be peacekeepers for Eve's creations; they police the supernatural world."

Dean rolled his eyes up to stare determinedly at the ceiling. "Yeah, thanks Cas. Still not forgiven. Go away."

"He just needs more time," he heard Sam tell Cas quietly.

"How much more time?" Cas asked, almost whining—if you could whine with a voice that sounded like you gargled with gravel every morning.

"Just... more. He'll come around eventually," Sam said encouragingly. Cas replied with the rustle of feathers marking the angel's departure, which meant it was safe for Dean to take his eyes off the ceiling now.

"Sounds juicy," Nick murmured from where he was still splashing in the bathtub, "do tell." And Sam actually _started to explain_ Dean's emotional issues to the creature in their bathtub.

Dean stomped out of the bathroom and flopped facedown on his bed for the second time today. "I'm actually back in hell. That's what this is. I'm in hell," he complained into his pillow. At least his pillow didn't mock him or try to make him have _feelings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While everyone in this story seem to be ridiculous caricatures of themselves, it's my head-canon that Nick is being _so_ camp because he's noticed that it makes Dean uncomfortable.
> 
> That's right, Nick _Eames_. I will edit the tags to reflect the new fandom in the cross and new character when I post the next chapter, so I don't spoil the reveal for anyone reading along. :D


End file.
